Survival Island

by Matt Drabble

  Heavy footsteps approached his hiding place. This guy was massive and he started to revaluate his odds of taking the guy. Rollins was big, but this guy made him look like a toddler.

  He kept crouched down with his shoulder against the door, ready to spring if necessary and use the element of surprise to his advantage.

  The mountain headed down the rows of seedlings and fledgling plants. He stopped every now and then to inspect the crops before moving ever closer to Rollins’s hidden position.

  He walked all the way back until he paused outside of the door.

  Rollins heard the main fingering the opened padlock curiously and he knew that he had to make a move and hope that the huge man had no skill in combat.

  He drew himself up to a standing position, and in one fluid movement, he kicked the door as hard as he could. The door opened outward and shot forwards, striking the mountain hard. Rollins ducked low and rolled out of the room under the grasp of the now-staggering man-mountain.

  The huge man let out an almighty roar of shock and pain as the door split his forehead open. Rollins reached out and snatched the front of the man’s robe.

  He stepped around the man, and in one motion, propelled the bigger man forwards. The man was so surprised by the assault that he staggered forwards before tripping and landing face down in the mushroom patch.

  Rollins didn’t bother looking back as he bolted for the front door and freedom.

  He was wearing all black, along with night camouflage smeared on his face. The man hadn’t got any kind of look at him yet, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He reached the door and threw it open, only to be confronted by another man. This one was much smaller than his compatriot and looked terrified at Rollins’s sudden appearance.

  Rollins flashed out a crooked arm and caught the man flush across the nose with his dipping elbow. Blood exploded from the wound and the man wailed, again making way too much noise for his liking.

  He paused for just a split second to catch his bearings and the best possible route to escape without running into more of the monks. That split second was his downfall.

  A gigantic hand snatched out of the dark and grabbed him from behind, dragging him back into the darkness.

  ----------

  Tunstall could only stare on in disbelief as his brain tried to process what had happened. He’d seen Brother Torvan going into his shed and had followed him down, worried that his secret crop might be discovered. He’d reached the door when it had flung open and a stranger had hit him before he knew what was happening.

  He stood now outside the shed as it sounded like two caged animals fought inside. Tables, shelving and heaven only knew what else were being destroyed inside the dark and Tunstall could only wait outside, not knowing whom to root for.

  His allegiance to the family ran deep but it had waned over the past few years and his escape plan was fast coming to fruition. If Brother Torvan discovered what he’d been up to, then he’d end up in the dungeons below the monastery, of that he had no doubt. The archaic punishment had not been used for years, but he knew that Torvan favoured the penalty, another reason to want to be free of this place before Torvan ascended.

  The other man was a stranger to him, but he didn’t get an islander vibe from him. That could only mean that he was from the mainland, and that meant he was here from Cooper Fox’s dealer connection. Tunstall knew then and there that they would look to steal from him and couldn’t be trusted.

  As the fight raged on inside, he genuinely didn’t know whom he hoped to see emerge, but he was leaning towards the newcomer.

  Pretty quickly the violence inside stopped and a deathly stillness fell over the air. Tunstall held his breath as the door slowly creaked open and a face peered out.

  The newcomer emerged through the doorway before stopping but there was something strange with his expression. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and it took Tunstall a moment to realise that Torvan’s hand was clamped around the man’s neck and was holding him upright.

  Torvan himself looked to be battered and bruised with a combination of mud and grey powder smeared over his face. One eye was almost completely closed. There were a multitude of serious and painful looking cuts and abrasions, and yet he was smiling.

  “Brother Tunstall.” Torvan smiled. “Give blessings to the gods. They have bestowed the strength upon me to deal with the devil’s minion,” he said, shaking the corpse in his grip. “And I will deal with all of those that seek to take from us what is rightfully ours. I shall strike down those that would oppose us in their blasphemy and they shall feel our wrath, Brother; that I guarantee.”

  Tunstall could only shudder while praying to the gods himself that Torvan wouldn’t notice. The big man had always been a little crazy, but right now he looked positively insane and Tunstall was terrified.

  “They came to our home, Brother,” Torvan continued. “They came to our home and struck the first blow, an act of aggression against the Order and against the very gods themselves! This is now war, my Brother. Mark my words! WAR!”

  ----------

  Cooper Fox was holding court behind shut curtains at Pearl Christian’s closed cafe.

  The place was packed and temperatures were running high. Cooper was continued to keep the troops angry while regaling them with his own personal story. This was a story, of course, that had grown more wild by the minute.

  By now, Cooper and Anderson were innocent babes wandering the woods before being viciously attacked in an unprovoked assault by a gang of roaming Niners.

  Pearl Christian was happy to supply the predominately male audience in the room with free beer to further stoke the fires. She had a few bottles of whiskey out the back but she wanted the men greased enough to want to act but just sober enough to carry it off.

  Most of the men present were from the mill - proud men angry at losing their jobs and looking for somewhere to put the blame.

  Dale Clayton was understandably taking a lot of the flack. The town mayor and mill owner had, in most people’s eyes, run the place into the ground, something his father would never have allowed to happen, but Dale was not the man his father was.

  “Damn Niners think they can do anything,” Cooper raged and everyone nodded along or shouted agreement. “This place is about to die and those bastards are going to stand by and watch us all go under.”

  This was met with a larger angrier round of accord.

  “Just look at what they did to me,” Cooper spat as he yanked open his fleece collar and showed the red finger marks around his throat. “And do you know what our esteemed constable did about it? Nothing! Absolutely jack shit!”

  “No one’s going to do anything,” one of the loggers shouted.

  “It’s all right for them - they’re not the ones suffering,” another joined in.

  “I’ve got three kids and a wife to support. How am I supposed to look them in the eye?” a third said angrily.

  “Pretty soon we’ll all be living on the mainland, and then what? Shitty jobs packing groceries? Cleaning toilets? Forget looking my family in the eye, how am I supposed to look at myself in the mirror?”

  The comments were coming thick and fast now, and Pearl sat silently, feeling that the call to action was approaching fast.

  “A 52-year-old bag boy. Is there anything that makes you want to puke more?”

  “My family have lived here for 12 generations. This is my home.”

  “This is our land, our birthright!” Cooper added. “And what right have those sons of bitches got to steal it from us?”

  “You’re forgetting they own that land,” someone piped up, spoiling the party.

  “Says who?” Cooper demanded.

  “Oh, you know as well as I do, Cooper,” the man answered. “They did a deal with the Claytons a long time ago. That land was given to them fair and square.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t pay a penny for it, did they?” Pearl interjected in an annoyed and somewhat jea
lous tone. “Didn’t pay a penny for it and now it’s worth millions. How’s that fair?”

  “Millions?” someone asked with a whistle.

  “That’s what I heard. That newcomer fella offered them three million to sell up and they turned him down flat. Practically threw him out on his ear!”

  “Millions! That’s just about right, isn’t it? We’re all barely scraping by and they’re gonna be rich.” Cooper spat.

  “Only they ain’t gonna sell, are they? I mean, what kind of people turn down that sort of money?” one of the men demanded.

  “Fools or maniacs,” Cooper answered. “And how the hell are we supposed to deal with insane people like that?”

  There was a lot of murmuring amongst the group. Many of them were thinking about the money that had been refused and what kind of people would turn that down. But everyone was thinking about the future and their lack of it if the Niners wouldn’t budge.

  “So..., what are you men going to do about it?” Pearl demanded. “Are you going to stand up or lie down?”

  The men started to talk lower then, and the raging anger became less of a wild torrent and more of a laser-guided missile.

  ----------

  CHAPTER 9

  Chickens roosting

  Quinn knocked back the shot and coughed violently.

  “Whoa, what is this?” she asked, looking down at the clear liquid in the glass.

  “A little of my home recipe.” Dr Simmons winked.

  “You making homebrew, Doc?”

  “I don’t know… depends if you’re going to tell your boyfriend on me.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Oh, don’t be so coy, Ashley. I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at our fair constable.”

  “Oh, Doc. Caleb and I have been friends since we were kids.”

  “Well, my dear, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not kids anymore.”

  Quinn found herself uncharacteristically blushing at the very notion, and somewhere deep inside, she realised this wasn’t the first time the idea had crossed her mind.

  “I’m here for my job,” she answered finally after a long pause.

  “Not your father?”

  “I wouldn’t open my curtains if that man was standing in my back garden,” Quinn said bitterly.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I really... I really shouldn’t say.”

  “Damn it, Doc, what?”

  “He... he’s not well,” Simmons finally answered.

  Quinn tried to process the news and the thoughts that were suddenly running though her head.

  “How sick is he?” she ultimately asked.

  “Damn this stuff,” Simmons said, setting her glass aside. “I’m sorry, this is all very unprofessional of me.”

  “Well it’s too late for that now, so just tell me.”

  “He’s dying, Ashley.” Simmons sighed heavily. “I’m afraid he really doesn’t have much time.”

  ----------

  Solomon Abel couldn’t sleep. He had been tossing and turning for the past couple of hours. It was still dark outside and he could tell by the shade of night that dawn was still some way off.

  The Order didn’t believe in timepieces - no watches and no clocks. As far as they were concerned, the day started when the sun rose and it ended when the sun set. The gods provided the daylight for work and the night was for rest. It was a simple life devoid of distractions but it was not for everyone.

  After a short while, he climbed out of bed, knowing that sleep had left him for this night and would not return any time soon.

  The floor was cold as he swung his legs out of bed. His body ached more and more these days, a failing machine that was reaching the end of its natural life.

  He had no qualms about his imminent passing; life and death were two parts of the same form. He would pass over to the next life awaiting him and would either be given his reward or else the gods would have another mission for him, one that he would accept willingly.

  More and more these days he found himself unable to shake the feeling of impending doom that seemed to be gathering over his family.

  He wandered along the stone halls, musing about the dark clouds that seemed to be settling over his mind. He was finding it hard to tell if his thoughts were affected by his ageing form or if there really was a storm about to break.

  The upper levels of the monastery were mainly accommodation. The brothers and sisters slept soundly as he wandered, his bare feet feeling the cold of the stones beneath, but his pride refusing to let him cover them.

  He reached the end of the hallway and walked out onto a balcony. From here he could see the Order’s land stretching out in front of him. The crops were growing well this season and the harvest would be bountiful.

  Brother Tunstall had a keen farmer’s eye and kept them supplied. He was a good man but his heart was no longer with the Family. He hadn’t said anything specifically but Solomon could always tell when one of his children was unhappy. It would be a shame if Brother Tunstall left them, but every brother and sister had their own paths to follow and sometimes the gods called them away before returning them home.

  He looked out into the dead night and was suddenly surprised to see movement down below. At this time he’d assumed everyone was asleep, but despite his advancing years, his eyesight was still sharp.

  He could see a figure moving through the crop lines and it took him a while before he finally recognised Brother Tunstall. This further enhanced his feelings for the man. Seeing the farmer working so diligently into the night only proved what a valuable asset he was.

  Watching the man move about, he made a mental note to reach out to the brother. Normally, he wouldn’t interfere with the gods’ plans, but it was sometimes hard to know what they wanted him to do and what they didn’t.

  He started to turn around when a second figure suddenly emerged out of the darkness. This one was instantly recognisable and far more troubling.

  Torvan’s huge form was hard to miss, even in the dead of night. Unlike Brother Tunstall, Torvan had no business to be out in the fields, even in the daytime.

  The sight of his son out there was deeply troubling to Solomon, even though he couldn’t quite understand why. He wasn’t a suspicious man by nature - he’d never had cause to be - but now he felt a deep sense of unease at the sight below, one that only exacerbated his overall feeling of a brewing doom.

  ----------

  Dale Clayton was another man on the island who couldn’t sleep that night. He had no religious beliefs per se. He didn’t believe in an almighty omnipotent being that sat in judgement on the world from a cloud on high. He didn’t need to believe in such a deity when he had his own sitting upstairs.

  He had been stewing all night, wondering just how his control had slipped over his town so quickly and what it would take to try and get it back.

  It had been Dale Clayton who had brought in the newcomer, Haynes. Dale Clayton had been the one to see the potential in the monastery grounds and bring in the right developer. The whole plan to save the island was his, and yet no one could see that. All they could see was a failure: a failed businessman and a failed son.

  The steady snoring overhead started again. His father slept better than he did these days it seemed, and Dale poured himself another drink, hoping to use the alcohol as a sleeping crutch tonight.

  His desk was covered in plans and drawings, artist renderings of what the town could look like if only he could make it happen. He’d known that Solomon and his ilk would be an obstacle, but he’d never dreamed that they would halt him entirely. The town was in an uproar and they were looking for leadership. The trouble was that no one was looking his way.

  His fist curled in anger and impotency. The snoring old bastard upstairs had run this town for decades with never a problem to trouble his sleep.

  The mill had been the backbone of the town, but his father had never had to deal with a changing lan
dscape that made the mill obsolete. His father had gotten to stroll around Clayton as its ruler without a care in the world. He had no idea just what it took to keep the mill going as long as Dale had, and yet he was the one seen as the failure.

  In a sudden fit of rage, he threw the papers aside, clearing his desk in a single sweep. His glass went flying and smashed against the stone fireplace and he noted, with no little relish, that it was one of his father’s favourite sets. It was a small rebellion but at least it was something.

  He managed to sit staring at the mess for almost a full minute before he was compelled to clean it up. The paperwork was still important, regardless of its fading relevance. It would be no more than kindling for the fire unless he could think of something fast.

  Once the papers were carefully retrieved and filed away, a thought did finally pop into his head. It was a small seed but it grew quickly, and before long, it filled his mind.

  The office down here contained everything that was relevant to Dale’s reign over Clayton. There were tall metal filing cabinets lining the walls but everything here was fairly recent in terms of the island which had a long and storied history. His father’s files were upstairs in the old man’s room, great swatches of material dating back decades. Also up there were materials going back even further, things from before his father and his father and so on.

  Dale swigged long and hard from the decanter of bourbon to give him courage for what lay ahead.

  He headed upstairs slowly and as quietly as he could manage. The wooden staircase creaked and he flinched every time that it did so, but every time that he paused, he could still hear his father’s heavy snoring.

  Once at the top of the staircase, he eased his way along the landing. In a perfect world, he would do this when the old man was out. The trouble was that he was essentially bed bound these days. Dr Simmons had been telling him for years that his father didn’t have long, but he knew the bastard was too damn stubborn to die and would probably outlive them all.